


(i carry it in my heart)

by secrettemplars (tricycleamoving)



Series: Furihata Week Entries [1]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Inspired by Poetry, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5135804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricycleamoving/pseuds/secrettemplars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Furihata ruminates in the library. </p>
<p>Written for day one (prompt: after school activities) of <a href="http://furihataweek.tumblr.com">furihata week</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(i carry it in my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> After like five years of not writing jack shit, i come back with... whatever this is lmao. 
> 
> Anyway, this is for day one of [furihata week](http://furihataweek.tumblr.com)! No guarantees on whether I write something for every single day, but there are at least two more prompts on the list that i've set eyes on, so please anticipate those~

  _There’s really nothing like the library_ , Furihata thinks, as he slots yet another book back onto the shelf.

It wasn’t just because of the books, or the atmosphere (though both were amazing in their own right, and if it weren’t for the current situation it would be the only thing running through his mind), but because of… _him_. He could feel the heat return to his face even at the mere thought of getting another glimpse, another hint of the boy that he was unable to purge from his thoughts, and he was pretty sure his heart was about to beat right out of his chest: Furihata had a crush, and he had it bad.

He never meant for it to escalate as badly as it did, really. What started out as a passing curiosity turned into a lingering thought into a heart-pounding crush, and now he was here, rearranging books on the library shelf after school while praying for a single glimpse, a single encounter, a single exchange of words. It was horrible and nauseating and gut wrenching and absolutely beautiful. Furihata could only tighten his grip and wish for something that might never come.

Strangely enough, Furihata can’t really remember the first time he ran into his elusive crush. The memory is fuzzy in his mind, as if clouded with cotton. All he remembers is falling to the floor, his papers scattered around him like untorn confetti, a small hand wrapped around his as he’s pulled back up again, a soft voice muttering a gentle apology before disappearing, leaving him standing alone in the Japanese Poetry aisle, his heart beating fast and hard, and falling, falling, falling. From then on, it’s only been around quick corners and unintentional side glances that he’s spotted him, but even that’s enough to get his palms sweaty, his knees weak like jelly.

It was absolutely ridiculous.

Furihata wouldn’t have it any other way.

But it’s been a whole year since that first encounter, and he’s slowly losing hope. There’s so much a person can yearn before being reduced to ashes, ground to dust, and though his enamoration of the secretive boy burnt just as bright, he was sure that if he’d go on longing anymore he might just burn out, like the way a candle melted into a puddle of wax once a flame was done with it. As beautiful as the image was, Furihata knew it would be less beautiful and more of a trainwreck if the same thing were to happen to him, and so he tried his best to quell the flames, to suffocate them until they extinguished.

Still, he burns bright and hot and loud, and Furihata resigns himself to his fate.

The books are old in this section of the library, and it is silent as he plucks a misplaced _e e cummings_ anthology from the shelf and tucks it under his arm. He walks to the English Poetry section, and wonders why anyone would put a book of dog-eared english poetry in the Japanese Poetry section. He wonders why someone left a bookmark in a book that had never been checked out before.

He puts the book back onto the right shelf.

And then, suddenly, a small, pale arm next to his, plucking the anthology away right after he had just slotted it in place, and a gentle voice thanking him for _bringing the book back to its rightful place, he had been in a rush the other day and had mistakenly placed it in another section, wasn’t that just awful?_ Furihata could only stare, his mouth slightly parted as his feet became rooted to the ground, his entire body refusing to cooperate, feeling like stiff metal and rusty gears, his heart pounding in his ears like the world had fallen apart around him.

(A smile, and then he was gone.)

And as he stood there, watching messy pastel blue hair retreat further and further away from him until it was there no longer, he remembered that smile, and how it reminded him of the moon: beautiful and radiant and absolutely unattainable.

It was four in the afternoon, and Furihata never burnt so bright.

 

* * *

  _i carry your heart with me(i carry it in_

_my heart)i am never without it(anywhere_

_i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done_

_by only me is your doing,my darling)_

**\- e e cummings**

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title and poem at the end is from e e cummings' poem: [_[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]_](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/179622)
> 
> I'm a pretentious fucker, i know.


End file.
